


but lend me your heart and i'll just let you fall

by waferkya



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Botellón, Community: footballkink2, Fluff and Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 06:53:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waferkya/pseuds/waferkya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“What if they win?” Raúl asks, as the Renfe website congratulates him for his purchase. He throws his legs up and turns around on the swivel chair, tipping his head to one side and looking at Alvaro. “What if they actually pass the round?”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	but lend me your heart and i'll just let you fall

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://footballkink2.livejournal.com/9768.html?thread=4184104#t4184104), which asked for alcohol and funny things so I'm very sorry for the outcome. I basically needed an excuse to start indulging in my Xaviker feelings.

“This is the worst idea ever,” Xabi says, tugging his hat a little lower on his head. Alvaro, who’s driving, reaches back to try and slap him, and, after some flailing that sends the car veering dangerously to the left, he manages to do just that, catching him right on the knee.

“You mean _the best_ idea ever,” he says; Xabi scoffs at him and Alvaro sends the car skidding again.

“What the fuck!” Sergio barks, and he’s riding shotgun so he, at least, gets to grab the dashboard and hold on for his dear life.

“Take it back, Xabs,” Alvaro says. Xabi opens his mouth to protest, probably recite some Shakespearean sonnet to back up his point or soothe their souls or whatever, but Iker shuts him off with a polite cough.

“The only reason why I agreed to take part to this, is because I was promised safety,” he says, so serious and collected that Alvaro gets a cold shiver and skips the turn they were supposed to make, not that anybody except the GPS notices. “And safety, as long as I’m concerned, includes not dying in a car crash in the middle of Barcelona, don’t you agree, Alvaro?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Alvaro mumbles. “But you know this is a great idea, you _know_ it, all of you, so if you could please stop pretending you don’t think so, I’d appreciate that.”

Raúl raises his hand. “I think it’s a wonderful idea.”

“Thank you, Chori.”

Xabi rolls his eyes. “Yep, thanks for your totally unbiased opinion.”

“What, I am totally unbiased.”

“Right.”

“Damn right. I am also unbowed,” Chori says, his face splitting into a manic grin as he and Alvaro yell together, “Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken!”

“Jesus Christ Alvaro, put your fucking hands back on the wheel!”

“Chill out, Sese, everything’s under control.”

Xabi peers out of the window, squinting at the dimly orange-lit streets of Barcelona, and says, “I think we just missed Carles’ place.”

 

(He has a text from Xavi that says, _im sorry_ , and judging from the timestamp, it was sent maybe after Sergio’s goal. Iker texts back, _christ, fuck you_ , because he doesn’t need this—sympathy, pity, friendly banter, whatever it is, he doesn’t need it. He doesn’t want it. What he wants is a pillow to muffle his screams and an ocean to swim away from every fucking thought, hope and dream he’s ever had.

His phone chirps with another text and Iker is angry at himself just enough that he doesn’t even hesitate before checking it.

It’s Xavi again, of course, and he says, _really_ ; just that; _really_ , like he wants to be there, a friend and a teammate and, just someone, something Iker can hold on to. _really._

Sergio is on the couch, asleep or pretending to be, an arm thrown over his face to hide the damp marks on his cheeks; Iker bites his lip and grabs the phone, gets out on the balcony.

Xavi picks up at the first ring.)

 

“You guys weren’t kidding,” Carles says when Xabi, Alvaro and Iker show up to his front door, and then he simply yells over his shoulder, “I’m going out!”

From somewhere inside the house, Vanessa calls back, “Be careful, and if you take my car don’t scratch it!”

Raúl and Sergio are waiting with the car, Raúl with his chin propped on the roof and Sergio leaning against the side, his arms crossed on his chest. Raúl gives them a big, bright grin and a cheerful wave of his hand; Sergio’s frown deepens a little.

“Shotgun’s taken,” he says; Carles arches his eyebrows, and they stare at each other very seriously for a bit, until Sergio huffs and unglues himself from the car.

“Good boy,” Carles says, slipping into the passenger’s seat.

 

(“What if they win?” Raúl asks, as the Renfe website congratulates him for his purchase. He throws his legs up and turns around on the swivel chair, tipping his head to one side and looking at Alvaro. “What if they actually pass the round?”

Alvaro blinks once, twice, and then he starts laughing, and he’s laughing so hard he actually falls off the couch. They don’t talk about that when they call Iker to explain their wonderful plan for the night.)

 

If there’s anything poetic about the starlit sky of Barcelona, the infinite silky expanse of the beach and the soft murmurs of the sea, it all gets pretty much fucking lost on Iker around his fifth swing of raspberry vodka. He’s not a heavy drinker, never has been, didn’t have the time for building up even half a decent tolerance to alcohol, what with being the poster boy of everything white and gold and shiny and, “Fuck everything,” he mutters, throwing another crumpled-up sports newspaper into the bonfire that Gerard set up with surprising expertise.

Xavi lightly headbutts his shoulder. “Shut up,” he says, and Iker frowns and wants to ask, _have you been sitting here all along?_ But his mouth tastes like something died in it, probably his dreams and happiness, and he tries to wash that away with another sip of vodka.

“I’ll tell you what,” Sergio says, his words slightly slurred; he’s laying down on his back, eyes fixed to the sky above and a sad graveyard of brown beer bottles surrounding him. “I’m not even sad anymore.”

“Yeah,” Cesc says, without a shadow of mirth in him. He has his head in his hands and doesn’t look up. “Lucky you.”

“No, seriously. I mean, what’s even the point. You feel me?”

“Guys,” Alvaro calls up, sucking melting marshmallows off his thumb. “You are depressing me. I didn’t come all the way down here from Madrid just to be depressed by you.”

“What _did_ you come for, exactly?” Xavi asks. “I mean. Even if we put our scores together—we still don’t win.”

Raúl sits up abruptly. “That is so _smart_ ,” he says, and there’s a puzzled chorus of _what is?_ that runs across the circle like a lazy shiver. “Like. If we just did this one, big team, all of us together.”

“Fuck, we could so, so beat them,” Alvaro says excitedly; Raúl nods frantically, his eyes blown wide and a little glassy, and all the sangria he’s been drinking has stained his lips a bright red.

Carles chuckles. “One big team,” he says. “With all of us, huh?”

“Yeah, we could show those Germans—”

“What would we call ourselves, though,” Raúl wonders, tapping a finger on his chin.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Victor says, kicking a bit of sand in his direction. “The National Team, maybe?”

Raúl’s eyes get even wider and rounder. “I’m calling Del Bosque like, _right now_.”

Iker starts to get up—clumsy and slow and weighed down by the vodka—but Xavi presses a warm hand to his forearm.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers. “I took his phone hours ago.” Iker opens his mouth and Xavi grins. “Yes, Alvaro’s too.”

Iker breathes out, a little calmer; Raúl is rummaging through his pockets with a frown, then he starts crawling around wrists-deep in the sand, making small noises like he’s looking for a cat. Iker almost takes pity on him, but suddenly Cesc is coming back to life from where he was hiding, half curled into Gerard’s side, and he yells, pointlessly loud, “We should _sing_.”

“I’m so not singing.”

“Oh, Vic, come on—”

“Nope, sorry.”

“If we sing, I’m calling Pepe,” Alvaro says—Iker tips his bottle to Xavi’s beer can.

“To a very well though-out plan,” he mumbles; Xavi laughs, actually laughs, his eyes going thin and his mouth curling up. In the warmth of the worst night of his life so far, or so it seems right now anyway, Iker stares at Xavi’s face, ghostly white and familiar almost as his own, and he thinks, _I want that_. He’s not sure what, though—if he wants to put that relaxed, amused expression on Xavi’s face again, or if he just wants _him_ , his happiness and his disappointment and his beer, just because it’s Xavi and Xavi’s been there for so long, Iker can’t imagine himself without him. He doesn’t want to.

“Stop thinking so much,” Sergio tells him, kicking him in the ribs; Iker leaps a little to the side, bumping into Xavi, who giggles again and slips an arm around his waist to keep him still.

“I hate to say this,” he mumbles, half into Iker’s neck, “but I agree with Sese. Drink. Shut that big brain of yours for a while.”

“And that big heart of yours,” Sergio says, quietly.

“And that big cock of yours, too!” Cesc calls out from across the fire. Iker throws a shoe at him, and all is sort of, kind of okay, and raspberry vodka doesn’t really taste like failure anymore.  



End file.
